I live in a rural area where good jobs are few and far between. That being the case, one has to create one's own employment. One of the things I do is to drive elderly people around -- to go shopping, to the doctor, the hairdresser, and so on. On this one particular day I was driving a regular client in her eighties. The first stop was some shopping at Home Depot. It was a normal day for me, except for the fact that I hadn't taken a dump in about five days.
Thanks to an accident, I am under the treatment of a pain specialist who has me on heavy narcotics. Great for pain, but horrible for gut-busting constipation. And as we were walking down the plumbing aisle, I felt it: the sensation of a week's worth of shit begging for merciful release.
I excused myself from my client and waddled with clenched cheeks towards the thunderbox, ready to throw some serious rope. I was pleased -- I figured I'd give birth to a two-footer and be done in no time. I finally found a stall that wasn't sprayed with diarrhea and sat down to unload, ready to mix my stench with the unholy perfume I was now inhaling.
As I waited for this goliath to slither out of my grey rose, something strange happened: nothing.
"How could this be?" I thought. "A minute ago I was about to shit my pants."
I was clearly being toyed with. Five minutes passed -- nothing. Ten minutes -- nothing. Finally, after about twenty minutes of grunting and pushing, something that felt the size of a baby's arm poked its head out -- and then stopped. It would go no further.
Now I had a decision to make. A half hour had passed, and my eighty-year-old client was out in the store probably getting tired and wondering where the hell I was. To make matters worse, I had the car keys, so she couldn't even wait in the car for me. I had to either disimpact myself or suck this beast back into my colon to fight another day.
But I had come this far. So I opted for the horrible task of disimpaction, via my digits.
I managed to slide my finger into my hole and begin trying to pull the bad boy out. A couple of chunks fell into the bowl, but all I really accomplished was to mash it around like some fetid piece of clay.
So there was only one thing left to do: I had to clench my cheeks and try to retract this devil spawn.
But after five minutes of no movement, I finally threw in the towel. I couldn't keep my client waiting any longer. I zipped up, cleaned the shit off my fingers, and proceeded to spend the rest of the day with a lump of coal stuffed in my stocking. My client was nice enough not to ask questions.
When I finally got home that evening, I swore that by hook or by crook I was going to get this thing out. My colon had declared a fecal jihad, but I was going to win.
I proceeded to take all my clothes off and head off to the front. This was going to be a dirty war. I sat on the bowl with blind determination and contorted my body into wild positions for maximum leverage. I did everything but swing from a trapeze and put my feet on the ceiling. I pushed and pushed and finally gave a push so hard my lips turned blue and my eyes bulged out. Like a cork shooting out of a champagne bottle, the mighty stool hit the water with the force of a space capsule splashing down in the Pacific. My entire ass was soaked from this anal tsunami.
I sat there for a good five minutes, trembling, with snot running down my face and tears streaming. I had done it, by sheer force of will.
I stood up to bear witness to this concentrated chunk of evil -- and I couldn't believe my eyes. This monster, this fecal dictator that I had fought all day, was only the size of a ping-pong ball. I had been fooled. Rooked. Bamboozled. This was just a mere battle. The war would be fought later, perhaps the next day.
I went to bed that night humbled, but alive.